It was while still in Germany that the Americans took a carriage-drive along the banks of the Rhine to visit a grim, feudal castle covered with ivy and surrounded by a moat. The castle was the residence of an absent count, and was kept open by servants, who, for a small fee, would show the interior to visitors.
“What a lovely, mouldy old place!” exclaimed Pauline, when the horses had stopped before it. And springing to the ground she hastened into the court, across what formerly had been a drawbridge.
Miss Evans followed more slowly, pausing midway to peep over the rail down into the sluggish water of the moat beneath her. Owing to a vegetable growth upon its surface, this water was as green and velvety as a meadow.
“I should think that pasture-y look would fool near-sighted cows, shouldn’t you, Miss Evans?” said Kirke at her elbow; and he was gratified that she positively laughed at his nonsense. This made the second time she had laughed that day. Entranced by the beauty and antiquity of the spot, she ran about the park with Weezy like a gay young girl; stopped at the ponds to feed from her own luncheon the gold-fish and swans; and on returning to the castle waved her handkerchief from its highest turret.
“She actually looks happy, Polly,” observed Molly, answering the salute from the bridge below.
“So she does. She must have forgotten herself,” responded Pauline with a touch of sarcasm.
Pauline was right. Miss Evans had forgotten herself, and for this reason something very sad had occurred—something which little Miss Weezy was the first to recognize.
She sat opposite Miss Evans in the carriage, and after they had driven several miles toward Cologne suddenly exclaimed,—
“Why, how funny, Miss Evans! You haven’t brought your reticule!”
The young lady flashed a glance at her belt and threw up both hands with a cry.